Once I don't do 'things' immediately, they would often vanish in the realm of oblivion. That's why I am thankful to the very inner voice whispering: Carpe noctem.
Be it then: Some - do I need say?: very personal - thoughts before the chapter picture- respectively cowengate is going to get closed.
And some last words before diving in media res: I've been following with interest (and often chucking) what has been posted about this 'issue'. By the following, which I shall be writing 'without filtres', thus as the thoughts come, I do not intend to attack anybody.
*
What has happened? A 'clever' chap (I promised to come back to this point) unasked nails some caricatures to some museum walls, and ... ... nothing happens. So, after a while, the 'clever chap' - did anyone notice I did not call him 'artist'? - emails a newspaper. [Comment: It would not make much sense to hit a nail into the wall of any museum's toilet, as long as noone takes notice, hm?]
Well, and what happens afterwards, meanwhile everybody (at least in the blogosphere) should / could know.
Thus, end of the beforegoing.
De gustibus not est disputandum. Quite. Either you have it, or you have it not.
So, why would I publish caricatures of a naked Taoiseach?
Ladies, gentlemen, this is not about a "clever chap" trying to advertise his 'artwork'/name; this is about freedom of speech / music / arts / satire ... ... and - last not least - freedom from censorship!!
Yes, again, I am writing this 'without filtres', without caring about 'wrong' syntax, 'wrong' prepositions, 'wrong' idioms.
Satire is satire is satire.
Imagine all the flags burning if this were, f.e. about a naked Mohammed or any of the very genleman's afficionados.
Conclusion: Ha, ... ... what a great fun to show a Taoiseach without clothes; ... what a fun to attack the 'fucking bastards' elected by a majority of most intelligent voters; ... what a fun we (bloggers) had while ...
... approximately 280,000 children died of starvation.
Oops. Did I spoil the fun? Sorry. Am I a fucking kill-joy? Forgive me.
After all, who cares, hm?
We - the great champions of the blogosphere had a splendid time, hadn't we?
Exactly the fun, Heinrich Heine once defined:
Der Knecht singt gerne Freiheitslieder des Abends in der Schenke.
The peasant loves to sing songs of freedom (rebel-songs) in the pub at night.
- - -
I am proud of myself ... as I knew before that I'd not be able to express my thoughts (in English).
So, please, forgive me and head on to read the very best post on this very topic.
This morning while in fact busy with proofreading his 1669-pages-work "Pre-assyrian philately in a Nutshell" my closest friend Tetrapilotomos out of the blue declaimed following poem. Listening I had a déjà vu.
To be immortal is commonplace; except for man, all creatures are immortal, for they are ignorant of death; what is divine, terrible, incomprehensible, is to know that one is immortal.
I am god, I am hero, I am philosopher, I am demon and I am world, which is a tedious way of saying that I do not exist.
Brian Cowen, Taoiseach, March 25th, 2009
Blimey!!!!!
No.
Sorry.
This was a certain Jorge Luis Borges, quoted by Mr. Chris God-free Morell who, by the way, has nothing to do with a certain Seňor Morel, protagonist in Seňor Adolfo Bioy Casares' novel "La invención de Morel".
Well, yes, Seňor Casares had something to do with Seňor Borges.
No, none of the seňores had anything to do with any Taoiseach.
P.S. Sorry for any inconvenience: First the title, then the story.
"But he hasn't got anything on," a little child said.
"Did you ever hear such innocent prattle?" said its father. And one person whispered to another what the child had said, "He hasn't anything on. A child says he hasn't anything on."
"But he hasn't got anything on!" the whole town cried out at last.
The Taoiseach Emperor shivered, for he suspected they were right. But he thought, "This procession has got to go on." So he walked more proudly than ever, as his noblemen held high the train that wasn't there at all.
Why would I spontaneously come to think of Hans-Christian Andersen's tale The Emperor's New Clothes (a short version to be found here), and why is Andersen rotating with laughter in his dwelling six feet under?
Well, Brian Cowen, Ireland's Taoiseach (Prime Minister) may have shivered like Andersen's Emperor; and so may his entourage when watching this on RTE.
And why not? It's not necessarily great fun to get hit by the shifts of (ribald) satire. Ask Mohammed. So far it's been a modern adaption of Andersen's tale, varying only in so far as there was no child saying "But he hasn't got anything on!" but a clever (?*) chap gracing the (toilet-) walls of two museums with drawings of a Taoiseach who hasn't got anything on. *- I'll come back to this point.
But then:
Pardon?! Pain for the Taoiseach and his family? Did the Taoiseach get tortured in Guantanamo, in a Chinese, Iranian or Syrian prison? Waterboarding, and so on? Disrespect of his office?!?! Mind you, it's honourable to demonstrate or even feel pity with one's boss when he's getting mocked, but: Are there 'tea-shocking' paintings of the Taoiseach's naked entourage, be they with member or without, gracing the walls of Dublin's toilets? Didn't RTE tell all? End of the beforegoing. When telling him the above, my friend Tetrapilotomos, currently busy with finishing his encyclopaedia of pre-assyrian philately, did not even look up, but just murmured: "And there are medical scientists still discussing when a human being is braindead." As mostly I did not understand. Until I stumbled via the best Egg in the blogosphere upon this:
The Taoiseach's New Clothes with thanks to Allan Cavanagh
Recently Jams O'Donnell Esq. exhibited artist Uglow's euphemising painting of an ugly woman (photo above). Would any Bobby have interfered? No. Neither has the painting been confiscated, nor's an investigation into the matter under way.Well, the English police might have other things to do.
Same with the German physicist who would unfortunately give up her job in order to become Chancellor. Neither has the police confiscated umteen millions of euphemising Barbie-Angelas nor any other more realistic art work. One might wonder what (other things), but anyway, like the English police the German police seem to have other things to do.
Not so the Irish police. They have - as everybody knows - absolutely nothing to do except of calming down the enthusiasm of the plain Irish people when it comes to celebrate their beloved leaders' altruism and wisdom. Well, another evidence you might draw from yesterday's post.
Which is why today the BBC could tell the rest of the world that, apparently alarmed by the authorities (sic) of the Royal Hibernian Academy in Dublin* there is an investigation [...] under way, according the provenience of two paintings that for lack of knowing its official title I tend to introduce as The Taoiseach's New Clothes.
Glad to learn the Irish police after all seem to feel they have something worthwhile to do, after clicking the 'publish'-button I shall start to count my Zimbabwian Dollars, as I am determined to buy the 'The Taoiseach's New Clothes' which happened to be found gracing a wall of the toilet inside the National Gallery. * Interesting, by the way, to have a glimpse at the BBC's url: http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/uk_news/northern_ireland/7960997.stm
